


Nuclear Heart

by suethor



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Natasha Romanoff, Brainwashing, Darcy Lewis Is a Good Bro, Drama, F/M, Flashbacks, HBIC Pepper Potts, Journalism, Love Letters, Mutual Pining, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Slow Burn, Spies, Team Bonding, happy endings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 02:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10630605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suethor/pseuds/suethor
Summary: “Do I know you?” Bucky asks.Gen stops tapping her pen against the notepad.  “You used to.  Briefly.”“Were you an experiment too?”Shaking her head, she looks up to meet his gaze.  “We’re here to talk about your life story, not mine.”[In which Genevieve Powell’s exposé on the Heroes of New York forces her to confront a past she’d much rather leave buried.]





	1. intro.

**INTRO.**

**"** LOVE IS A KIND OF KILLING **"**  
**-megan abbott**

* * *

_**CAST.** _

**amy adams** as _genevieve powell_

 **sebastian stan** as _james barnes_

 **the avengers cast** as _their characters_

* * *

_**SYNOPSIS.** _

In which Genevieve Powell's exposé on the Heroes of New York forces her to confront a past she'd much rather leave buried.

* * *

_**NOTE.** _

At the core of this story is the dynamics between journalist Genevieve Powell and various team members of the Avengers as she interviews them for a big magazine piece comparable to _Time's_ 'Person of the Year' excerpt. As such, between the flashbacks to Gen's history will be her interviews with each Avengers character, starting with Steve and ending with Bucky.

I've put a lot of work into the story, it's my baby at this point, so I would appreciate it so, _so_ much if you could leave some sort of feedback. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to shoot me a message here or on tumblr (suethor).

 

 

COMING 4/16/17


	2. [1] hey sugar, you rationed?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen trips and it sets off a chain reaction that leads to pseudo-immortality, among other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: I’m not an actual journalist.  I read a lot of journalistic profiles to try and get the structure of the article excerpts correct, but I would like to humbly request that nobody send after me with pitchforks if it’s not actually New York Times-quality content.  Because if it was, I’d be writing something other than fanfiction.  
> 
> also, this takes place in a universe where civil war didn't happen because steve and sam found bucky soon after aou

Sometimes, in the morning, when the sun isn’t harsh enough to wake her up all the way, Gen still feels like a ghost in her own body.  

It’s been like this since before the war.  Not the one in Iraq, or Vietnam, or even the Cold War--though, that applies too.  But it’s been like this since before World War II.  1941.  

Her past had been rewritten a half-dozen times at least, and yet every day she woke up and recorded the present to decide some later generation’s history.  Journalism might’ve been a bad career choice for her.  Emotionally, that is.  Every other day seems to send her spiralling into another existential crisis about who she is, what she wants, how long she’ll be here.  

But then again--after so many years of lying (40?  50? Having been unconscious a third of the time, the lines tended to blur)--it would make some sense that she’d want to heal her conscience by telling the truth for a while.  

* * *

 

 **Hero Complex:** **  
** **the Avengers, declassified**

THE AVENGERS ARE DIVIDED over whose turn it is to wash the dishes.  Steve Rogers evades responsibility by saying that he cooked, that he _always_ cooks, unlike _some people_.  This comment is accompanied by a pointed look at Tony Stark, who defends himself by saying that he “pays for everyone.”  Thor isn’t allowed near the plates anymore, not since he shattered all of the glasses in an infamous incident three months ago, and Natasha Romanoff shakes her head no when her teammates’ eyes fall on her.  Silently, she points to Clint Barton.  

“Hey!” Clint whines.  “Aw, dishes, no.”  Contradictory to the reputation that precedes him, he is not scary.  His reaction to being told to do chores is to cross his arms and pout like a child.  

In the end, like all things, the dishes are done as a team.  The group hovers over the wildly technological sink--it _talks_ \--and pass plates to and from one another, scraping away the remnants of their lasagna dinner.  

It’s an oddly domestic sight for the most dangerous people on earth.  But the ease wasn’t always there.  Less than a decade ago, the Avengers were nothing more than strangers. 

x

FIVE YEARS AGO, the word “Avenger” meant nothing to the average civilian.  If anyone were to drop it in casual conversation, it would undoubtedly earn odd looks that communicated, _why did you just make that verb into a noun?_

Compare that to now--the future of the human race was forever changed during the Battle of New York in 2012, where an Asgardian prince by the name of Loki arrived on Earth wearing a memorable horned crown and demanding that mankind submit themselves into slavery. Everyone on the planet could be doing Loki’s laundry right now were it not for a group of six heroes.   The Avengers.  

Since then, it’s become synonymous with freedom-fighter or superhero.  The team’s faces adorn tee shirts, action figures, graphic novels, tabloid covers, and even an upcoming film (titled _War for New York_ ).  Children parade around in red wigs or star-spangled unitards on Halloween, and the new cartoon entitled _Earth’s Mightiest Heroes_ has the highest viewership for any animated show _ever._

But the Avengers aren’t just Halloween costumes, or action movies waiting to happen.  They’re the beginning of a new generation.  They’re the world’s first superheroes, and they’re certainly not going to be the last.  

* * *

[1] _hey sugar, you rationed?_

**B E F O R E**

In 1943, the soldiers in the 107th infantry were handed little cards with a question on them.   **_Would you like a pen pal?_ ** They circled yes or no and handed it back to one of the secretaries on site, and she would connect them with one of the programs back home.  

As Genevieve Powell was collecting the soldiers’ responses, she bumped into the doorway of one of the offices, sending the stack of papers fluttering to the ground.  She dropped to her knees, cursing and scrambling to snatch as many of them off the concrete as possible before anyone knew about her mistake.  

Gen could hear footsteps approaching from outside the room, and she lurched upwards, smoothing her skirt and her ginger curls and pretending that everything had been running smoothly.  

“Get those in by tonight, alright?” her boss asked.  

“Yes, sir,” Gen replied.  

She shoved the cards into envelopes with necessary information attached, and they were all being mailed by the time the sun set.  

Well.  Almost all of them.  Trapped behind the desk was one more sheet of paper.  

Under the name field, a messy hand had printed _James Barnes_ in block letters.  Under the answer field, he had signed _yes._ As in, _yes,_ he wanted a pen-pal.  

Three weeks later, when the letters began to arrive, Gen had nearly forgotten about the tripping incident.  She’d hoped that others felt the same.  Only when Sergeant James Barnes mentioned not receiving _any_ letters (compared to the two or three some soldiers were at) did Gen begin to worry.  At that point, she politely excused herself from the meeting room and dashed back to the office tent, where she practically turned the desk upside down trying to find the slip of paper.  

Her bitten-down nails scraped around the floor in search of an answer until _finally_ they brushed against something.  Gen yanked it out with more force than was necessary, and skimmed it with her eyes.  

Oh, hell.  

She’d missed one after all.  

What happened next wasn’t really a result of any tangible thought.  Instead, it was a decision prompted by fear of losing her job in the army, of being sent back home to be lonely and jobless during a World War.  

So she grabbed a pen from the desk drawer and a scrap piece of paper and began to write a letter.  

* * *

“Sergeant Barnes!” Gen found herself calling during breakfast the next day.  Her shoes sunk sadly into the muddy ground, leaving her stumbling.  “Sergeant Barnes!” she tried again, waving the envelope around like a madwoman.  

Barnes turned around, _finally_ , and raised an eyebrow.  “Yes, ma’am?”  

“I have the letter from your pen pal. It got lost, but the post office found it.”  

“Oh,” he said.  “Thank you.”  Then, he looked down at the address to see who it was from.  “Charlotte Richards,” he read.  

“Yup,” Gen agreed, smiling tightly.  “Charlotte Richards.  That’s...her name.”  

It _was._ Well.  It would be, if Charlotte was a real person and not the flimsy alias Gen had come up with last night in her quarters.  

“It’s a nice name,” Barnes said, catching Gen by surprise.  Her gaze flickered up to him.  

“Really?”  

He gave her a funny look.  “What?  Don’t you think so?”  

Gen’s eyes widened.  “No!  I think it’s a fine name.”  There was a pregnant pause as Barnes scanned the envelope.  During his inspection, Gen held her breath, hoping she hadn’t left any signs of her forgery.  She cleared her throat.  “I have to go finish something up, just wanted to make sure you got the letter.”  

Barnes nodded, smiling politely.  “Of course, ma’am.  Have a nice day.”  

And it _was_ nice.  At least, until Gen realized she was going to have to intercept the mail on the daily to see if Barnes had tried a reply to Charlotte.  

“Oh God,” she muttered, dropping her head into her hands.  “What have I done?”  

* * *

_Dear Sgt. Barnes,_

_I’m honored to be your pen pal.  My name is Charlotte Richards, I’m from Los Angeles, and I’m studying to become a teacher._

_You’ll excuse me, I hope, for how fumbly this letters is.  I’m not quite sure what to say.  I’ve got a mother and a father and two sisters, both older than me.  I’m not married or seeing anyone because I’d like to focus on my school for now.  I’m twenty-two years old._

_Do you have a wife you’re going to return to?  Or a job?  What was your life like before the war?_

_What’s your life like_ in _the war?  I can’t imagine how terrifying it must be, but you’re undoubtedly a brave man to fight for your country like this.  Stay safe._

_Sincerely,_

_Charlotte Richards_

* * *

_Dear Charlotte,_

_First of all, I insist that you call me James.  You’re the only contact I have to the world outside this hell of a war, so we might as well get on a first name basis now._

_I’m glad I finally got your letter.  For a while, I thought that they’d forgotten about me, but one of the secretaries chased after me this morning waving it around in her hand.  I don’t know her name, but I ought to try and thank her for clearing things up._

_Los Angeles sounds beautiful.  I must admit I’ve never been, but it’s probably more fun than the European theater. What are your sister’s names?  I’ve got one of my own.  Her name’s Rebecca, and she’s a nurse in the Pacific right now.  My ma’s back home in Brooklyn, but my dad passed away a few years ago.  I had a cat growing up.  His name was Sherlock and my mother hated him._

_I’ve got two parents and a sister, but no wife.  My closest family is my friend, Steve, back home.  He’s a great guy.  He wants to join the troops, but he’s awful skinny so they’ve been rejecting him every time he’s applied.  Mark my words, he’ll find a way into the war, one way or another._

_Since you’re living in Los Angeles, do you know any picture stars?  Do you have any news on what’s the newest film out now?  I’d give anything for a chance to sit and watch one again._

_The war is hell but it needs to be fought.  I was drafted, but it’s still an honor to serve.  I think we’re winning.  I hope we’re winning.  I hope we’re sending a lot of Nazis to hell._

_It’s great that you want to teach.  I never paid as much attention in school as I should’ve, but if I could afford college when I get back home, I would go._

_I’ll do my best to safe.  Maybe when the war’s over, we can meet sometime.  I just have to make it out of here alive._

_Sincerely,_

_James_

* * *

This whole plan was not one of her best, Gen decided, chasing down the mailman for the third time that week.  

Finally, there was a letter.  

She clutched it in her hands and meandered back to camp, trying to catch her breath.  The soldiers, thankfully, were out doing morning roll call, so there was nobody to question what the hell she’d been doing.  

Hands shaking in the bitter morning, Gen tore the envelope open and pulled the letter out.  Her eyes skimmed the page for a moment, and she realized that her lie was just going to keep growing.  

“Damn,” she muttered, furrowing her eyebrows.  

Most of Charlotte’s story had a ring of truth.  Genevieve, while not native to Los Angeles, had two sisters and _had_ wanted to become a teacher before this opportunity came up.  Even though she’d grown up in Spokane, her cousin had lived in Los Angeles, so she’d been there once.  

Still, though.  No matter how much truth she shoved into the story, it was still a lie.  

There was no Charlotte Richards.  

Gen folded the letter until it was small enough to fit into her breast pocket, and then she followed to breakfast.  

* * *

 ****Barnes made good on his promise to Charlotte--during breakfast, he’d approached Gen and thanked her for the letter.

“Have you written back yet?”  

Barnes nodded.  “Send it in this morning before drills.  She seems like a great gal.”  

Gen smiled politely.  “I’m sure she is.  I hope…”  She stopped short.  What did she hope?  How in the world was she supposed to end this sentence?  “I hope you...have a.  Nice day,” she finally settled.  

The Sergeant gave her a funny look.  “You...as well, ma’am.”  

Mouth slightly agape at her own stupidity, Gen stared at Barnes for another minute.  “Someone is...calling me.  I have to go.”  

She pushed away from the table where she’d had her breakfast, and dashed into the office tent nearby, cursing herself all the while.  Gen pressed her back to the tent’s flaps, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath of relief.  

“Can I help you?” a voice asked.  

Gen winked one eye open and found herself staring at Agent Carter and Colonel Phillips.  

“I…” she stumbled.  “I was wondering if either of you wanted coffee this morning.”  

“No thank you for either of us,” Phillips replied.  “We’re heading out to Camp Leheigh this morning, but thank you.”  

“Of course, sir,” Gen returned.  She flashed a quick smile and then turned on her heel.  She wished, quite honestly, that the ground would swallow her whole.  

Across the field, her gaze met Barnes’ again, and this time, he smirked.  

Gen’s heart thudded, but she mustered up enough bravado to meet his smirk with her own.  

She could pull this off.  Probably.  

* * *

_Dear James,_

_Being your sole connection to the outside world is a title with a lot of pressure attached.  I will do my best._

_Was that funny?  I was trying._

_To answer,  your question, my sisters’ names are Claire and Rachael.  Rachael is married, and her husband was drafted a week ago.  Claire is engaged, but her fiance has terrible allergies so he’s been able to avoid the draft so far._

_Los Angeles is beautiful, and very vibrant this time of year. Of course, it tends to behave like summer no matter what month it is, but now everything is in bloom and it’s plain lovely. Except the heat--the heat is awful, I abhor it._

_I always wanted a cat, but they make my mother sick so I've never been able to have one. I had a dog, though. He died two years ago, and I miss him terribly. Funnily enough, his name was Johnny._

_(Get it?  Johnny like John Watson?  Nevermind, it’s not actually that funny.)_

_I'm sorry your friend hasn't been able to make his way into the troops. Maybe there's something else he could do? An office job of some sort to help with the war effort?  I know there are positions beyond those on the front-lines._

_Do you care to put money on that bet?  I'm kidding, of course, since you ought to save up for college when you come back. Maybe we can bet something else. If your friend finds his way into the war, I'll take you to the movies sometime, and if he doesn't, you have to take me dancing?  Is that fair?_

_The last movie to be released was_ For Whom the Bell Tolls, _and while my sisters hated it, I thought it was interesting. I'm afraid I'm not familiar with any movie stars, though once I saw Veronica Lake in a hotel lobby where I was trying to get a receptionist job. (I didn't get it.)_

_It’s odd to say, since we haven't been writing each other for very long, but I'm proud of you. Even if you were drafted, you're still going through hell to save the lives of other, innocent people._

_I’d love to meet in person when the war ends. We can decide what we’ll do based on who wins the bet._

_Sincerely,_

_Charlotte_

* * *

_Dear Charlotte,_

_You’re doing a fantastic job already.  And yes, it was funny._

_Brooklyn was always dim, especially since I grew up in a closet of an apartment, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  Even Los Angeles.  Though I still would like to visit.  And I guess, it doesn’t matter what time of year, since it’s summer all the time._

_Don’t hate me for saying it, but I almost miss the heat.  It’s cold to the bones here, and there’s no escaping it with these thin tents.   Summer in New York is humid as hell, but once I’m back home I know I’ll never take advantage of it again.  England is cloudy and I feel like I haven’t seen the sun in ages._

_I’m sure Sherlock would’ve loved you.  He had a strange affinity for dogs, so maybe if he and Johnny had met, they could’ve gone on adventures together.  They would’ve made Doyle proud._

_He’s been looking for work, but Steve won’t be satisfied until he’s fighting.  He won’t settle for more or less than anyone else, and in this case, that means he won’t settle for anything besides risking his own life just the same.  He makes me proud, but worried.  I’m hoping he hasn’t been stepped on by anyone since I’ve left._

_I’ll bet on it.  Those conditions sound fair to me.  Either way, I win._

For Whom the Bell Tolls?   _Is that the same as the book?  If so, I’ll have to agree with your sisters.  That was my least favorite book in school.  It was awfully boring and I didn’t like any of the characters enough to care about them._

_Watch Steve find his way out here.  We’re going dancing, I’m sure of it._

_Sincerely,_

_James_

* * *

By the fifth letter she’d sent, their conversations had relaxed more into James penning updates on his daily life, and “Charlotte” replying with appropriate reactions, plus adding some mundane story about life in Los Angeles.  For a moment, Gen could almost believe that things would run smoothly.  That this entire plot was gaining momentum.  

Then, James and a hundred other men went missing in action.  

And it all went to hell.  

* * *

Steve Rogers, after failing to impress the 107th with his rubber boots and ultra-patriotic unitard, took to another means of earning their respect: unauthorized rescue missions with high chances of failure.  

It wouldn’t have been Gen’s second choice--maybe, like, participating in training exercises or something--but to each their own, she supposed.  And really, what place was she in to judge other people’s decision-making?  She’d made up an entire _person_ , for Christ’s sake.  

Tensions were running high around camp after Steve Rogers disappeared behind enemy lines.  Colonel Phillips was furious at Agent Carter, which Gen knew from accidentally stumbling into a strategy meeting where he’d been berating her.  

The time she’d spend writing letters to James was instead spent re-reading the last letter from him, and then worrying profusely.  She couldn’t do much--she was a secretary after all--and it was killing her.  Gen bit her nails bloody and ran errands as per usual, but her mind was always occupied with overwhelming panic about Barnes’ wellbeing.  

 _What did you expect?_ she asked herself.   _This is a war.  People die in wars._ It didn’t matter if they were people she cared about or not.  Death chose blindly.  

She was organizing draft papers from approved recruits one morning, when the shouting and hollering began outside.  At first, she thought they might be under attack, so she abandoned the stack of papers and ran outside the tent to peak her head out, a prayer running through her head on its own volition.  

What she found was not a crowd of armed, enemy soldiers.  It was the missing men, marching back, led by...Steve Rogers.  His leather coat covered up the red, white, and blue uniform, but Gen’s focus wasn’t on him.  It was on the man by his side.   _James._ Before she could stop herself, tears began to flood her eyes and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stop a sob of relief.  

Gilmore Hodge sent her a disgusted look, and she would’ve told him off if all her attention weren’t on the returning soldiers.  He had no idea that James had grown important to her.  

Hell, even James himself didn’t know.  

Gen dabbed at her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara, and joined the rest of the infantry in celebrating the return of their missing men.  

The soldiers came to a halt as Rogers found himself toe to toe with Colonel Phillips.  “I surrender myself to disciplinary action,” he proclaimed.  

Phillips’ jaw hung open in shock, and he answered, “That won’t be necessary.”  

From that moment on, Steve Rogers had gained his respect.  He was promoted to the _actual_ position of Captain and began a long series of attacks against various HYDRA bases.  

Gen watched as he wiped Nazi bases off the map.  The comfort of knowing their upper-hand was accompanied by a swelling familiarity from the resuming of her letters with James.  Somehow, waking up earlier than anyone else in the camp to get the mail was no longer a chore, but something she looked forward to.  

She did her best to ignore the voice telling her that this plan was going to blow up in her face.  

 _Especially_ when James actually started talking to her.  

Whenever they were in a town instead of somewhere in the woods, especially after a victory, the soldiers tended to find themselves in a pub or a bar, drinking and celebrating.  Gen had decided to join once after Agent Carter had extended an invitation to her, and the two ladies found themselves sitting at the bar trading stories.  

Peggy told Gen of her time cracking codes and Gen told Peggy about her plans to become a teacher after the war.  When the two were buzzed, Peggy slipped away politely to talk with Steve, and James came over and took the brunette’s seat.  

“I’ve never seen you outside of your uniform,” he remarked, glancing down at the navy dress she was wearing.  

She raised an eyebrow, unamused.  “Is that a compliment?”  

James looked up to her with a smirk.  He ordered another drink before replying.  “It was more of an observation.  You look as good in your uniform as you do in the dress.”  Then, in a lower voice, he added, “And you look very good in that dress.”  

Gen had seen him pull this act before on other girls.  She’d had a bit of liquor, but not enough to be completely out of her senses.  “Thank you,” she answered politely.  “Are you having a nice time?”  

He shrugged, sipping his drink.  “It’s more fun than being in battle.”  

She laughed at that.  “Sounds about right.”  Gen’s eyes roamed over his face, up to his mussed hair and back down to his lips.  

 _Stop that_ , a voice said, and--was that her _mother_ ’s voice?  

Gen shook her head.  “You’re from Brooklyn, right?” she asked, trying to make casual conversation.  It was only  after she’d said it that she realized she wasn’t supposed to _know that._

James didn’t react, however, and she assumed he thought she would know because of her secretary job.  

“Yeah,” he said.  “Born and raised.”  Clearing his throat, he asked, “You’re Genevieve, right?”  

Gen raised an eyebrow.  “If you’re my mother, yes.  To everyone else, though, I’m Gen.”  

“Ah,” James replied.  “A nickname.  I’ve got one of those too, you know.”  

“Hm.  And what is that?”  

“Bucky.”  

Gen’s forehead wrinkled in question.  “How do you get _Bucky_ from _James?”_

He laughed, a warm sound that made her heart beat a little faster.   _Stop_ , she told herself.   _Don’t be ridiculous._

“It’s not from James.  It’s from James _Buchanan.”_

This time, it was Gen’s turn to laugh.  “James Buchanan?  As in...the president?  James Buchanan?”

“The one and only.”  

She smirked, laughing to herself.  “Do your siblings have names like that too?”  

“Nah,” James answered, leaning back in his barstool.  “My sister’s name is Rebecca Barnes.  That’s it.”  

“I see,” Gen responded.  

“How about you?  Any siblings?”  

Gen thought of Claire and Rachael, and how Charlotte also had sisters named Claire and Rachael.  “Two sisters,” she answered, and left it at that.  

Across the room, she noticed the time on the clock.  It was already late, and she’d have to be up early tomorrow.  

“I’ve gotta get going,” she announced, hopping off her stool.  

“You got somewhere to be tomorrow?”  

She shrugged, hoping to seem more enigmatic than she was.  “Maybe.”  She collected her purse. “I’ll see you later, James.”  

* * *

To Gen’s surprise, James sought her out again.  And again.  

And again.  

On the Howling Commandos’ way out to pubs, he’d stop by the tent where she worked and ask if she was going.  If she wasn’t, he’d persuade her.  

“Why are you so insisting that I go out?” she asked once.  

James shrugged.  “You’re good company.  I feel like we’ve known each other for a long time.”  

Gen stared pointedly at the floor as they headed out.   _It’s not real,_ her brain said.   _It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real._

* * *

When the other secretary fell ill, Gen was left to do all the paperwork for the infantry, which meant working double time.  

That night, James popped his head into the tent as per usual.  “Ready to go?” he asked.  

Gen shook her head, her face pinched up from the stress.  “Not tonight.  I’m still working.”  

James frowned.  “Still?  It’s almost nine.”  

“Diana got sick, so now I’m stuck covering for her too.”  She smiled apologetically, and went back to filing her papers and filling out forms.  

“Well,” James remarked, stepping all the way into the tent, “that’s not fair.”  

If she hadn’t been so stressed, Gen would’ve been more appreciative of his concern.  But the pressure was on, and like he’d said, _it was almost nine._ “It doesn’t matter what’s fair.  The war waits for nobody.  Especially not a secretary.”  

He crossed over to her desk and picked up one of the files, reading it over.  “Are you alphabetizing?”  

Gen nodded.  “Yeah.  And apparently, we’ve changed our system from alphabetizing by type of form to form applicant surname, so I’m redoing all the work I did this afternoon.”  She rubbed her eyes, not caring if it smudged her makeup.  She was tired.  

James lifted up half the papers she was going through, and started sifting through them.  Gen rose from the filing cabinet to look at him.  

“What are you doing?”  

He looked up at her and shrugged like it was obvious.  “I’m alphabetizing by form applicant surname.”  

Her mouth dropped open for a solid minute, and then Gen found words to reply.  “No, no it’s okay.  You don’t have to do that.  You must be tired too.  You were on your way out.”  

“Not really,” he answered.  “Plus, most of the reason I go out is to talk to you.  I’d rather be here than at a bar with them.  I get to spend all day with them.”  

Gen blinked at him, as if maybe she’d heard wrong.  No.  No, he hadn’t meant it.  She didn’t want to believe it, for fear of making a fool of herself.  What if she _had_ misheard?  What if he’d said, “Host of the season I know out is to walk too, moo.”  

_Yeah, that makes perfect sense._

Did he like her?  Like her as in Gen, not her as in Charlotte?  

 _You don’t have time to dwell on this._ She could overanalyze later, when her work was done and she was out of this hell tent.  

She took a better look at James, and noticed droplets of water running down his face.  “Is it raining?” she asked.  

His face tensed in an expression she couldn’t quite define.  Disappointment?  Rejection?  She only then realized that she’d changed the subject from his confession.  

“Yeah,” he answered, nodding.  

“I didn’t even notice,” she replied slowly.  “I’ve been so out of it.”  

“Well, we should finish these so you can rest, then.”  

He sat with her on the floor for a full hour, sorting through the papers and filing them away in their proper order.  Gen would occasionally steal glances at his hair, mussed pleasantly from the weather, at his face, with it’s sharp cheekbones jutting through boyish features.  

When the pile of papers had thinned out to only a couple more forms, she allowed her gaze to linger a bit longer.  James reached up to scratch at his chin, then glanced up and met her eyes.  She was too tired to realize how impolite her staring had been, so she kept her eyes on his.  

The silence was intense but not uncomfortable.  Gen bit her lip, and watched James slide his eyes shut, inhaling sharply.  

He made a sound low in his throat.  “ _God_ ,” he said.  

The word sent a shock to Gen’s core.  Nobody had ever reacted to her like that.  Nobody had ever looked at her with that much reverence.  

“You’re so far away,” she whispered finally, and James shifted himself until he was closer to her.

“Is this better?” he asked.  There was another question lingering just below the surface, a request for permission.  

Gen found herself without words, nodding silently, and lifting her hand to James’ cheek, running her thumb over the evening shadow on his face.  He inched his way closer to her, closer and closer and clo--

“ _Barnesss!”_ a voice slurred from outside.  

Gen was so surprised by the reminder of the outside world that she stumbled backwards.  She would’ve felt bad if James hadn’t done the same, eyes snapping open and jumping to his feet.  He went to the flap of the tent and stuck his head out.  

“Oh, what the hell, Dugan?”  Though muffled, Gen could still make out his voice.  

“You missed the fun.  Gabe…”  He suddenly broke out into loud, sharp laughter that snapped Gen all the way out of her haze, dragging her back into reality.  

James turned around over his shoulder and mouthed an apology to her as Dugan launched into a long, rambling story that sounded like it involved arm-wrestling.  

She shook her head.  Every cell in her body was screaming at her to finish what they’d started, but instead, she told him, “Go.”  Then, quickly, she added, “thank you.”  

He nodded, looking hesitant.  But despite his obvious apprehension, he stepped away, disappearing into the night.

* * *

The next night found James and Gen in a dance club.  The rest of the Commandos sat in the corner closest to the bar, drinking and generally being rowdy, while the pair hid away in the mass of other dancing couples.  

Gen took a deep breath.  “I’m afraid I have a confession to make.”  

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up_ , Gen willed herself.  She was too comfortable like this, dancing with him.  James had a hand on her waist and another intertwined with her own.  They’d been swaying all night, and the combination of cardio and liquor had her skin buzzed and warm.  

The stage was set for it to all go down in flames.  But Gen didn’t want this--whatever it was--with him if it was based on a lie.  She wanted something real.  

“Hm?” James prompted.  “What’s that?”  His voice was rough with the alcohol and it took all her willpower not to melt into his arms like some swooning damsel.  

“I…”   _Goddammit, Gen._ She’d rehearsed her speech a dozen times, but she still couldn’t spit it out.  “I’m Charlotte.  Or.  Well, Charlotte isn’t real.  I’ve been writing the letters.”  

James laughed, and Gen’s heart raced in anticipation.  He was _laughing?_ Well, what the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?  

Leaning close to her ear, he murmured, “Can I make my own confession?”  

His thumb began to trace circles on the small of her back, and her skin erupted with goosebumps, despite the warmth of his body so close to hers.  “ _Yes,_ ” Gen said, and it came out breathier than she had meant it to be.  

“I knew you were writing the letters,” James mumbled.  

Gen froze.  She pulled away.  “Wait, _what?_ How?  Why didn’t you say something?”  

The song changed into something slow and jazzy, and James adjusted the way he was holding her.  Slowly, he guided one of her hands up to his shoulders, and she followed, and then he rested his own arms on her hips.  

“I saw you intercepting the mail a few times, and the letters to me always arrived the day I’d see you come back with something.  You’ve also mentioned things from the letters a few times before.”  

The redhead bit her lip for a moment.  Tentatively, she asked, “Are you...upset?”  

James shrugged.  “I was a little, when I first figured it out.  But then...I don’t know.  It was kind of nice, how much effort you were putting into the letters.  And we still ended up here, didn’t we?”  

Gen glanced around at the club, then looked up into his eyes.  “Is this where you want to be?”  

He laughed again, warm and relaxed.  “This is where I’ve wanted to be since you and I talked for the first time.”  

Her pulse stuttered, and she moved a bit closer to him.  “Well,” she murmured, staring directly at his chest.  “At least this wasn’t entirely unrequited.”  

Looking up at James, she moved one of her hands from his neck to his face.  As she cradled his chin, his eyelids drooped shut.  “You’re killing me here, Gen,” he breathed.  

She felt high on the power she had in that moment.  Seemingly possessed, Gen moved her thumb to his bottom lip and traced a line across it, and she noticed his knees buckle the slightest bit, as he tightened his grip around her waist.   His eyes flew open, revealing just how dilated his pupils had become.  He looked drunk, and she didn’t know if it was because of the actual drinking, or because of her.  

“Trust me, doll, it’s all you.”  

Apparently, she’d asked the question out loud.  

“Well, soldier,” she asked.  “Are you gonna kiss me or not?”  

He moved his face towards hers at an agonizingly slow pace.  It was as like time slowed down, and her lips burned with anticipation.  Every conversation, every letter raced through her head until they were finally touching, and the thoughts exploded into a mess of emotions and sensations.  

When his lips met hers, it was softer than she’d expected.  James was all stubble and smirks; she wouldn’t have guessed he’d be this gentle.  

Her fingers found the hair at the nape of his neck and began to comb through it, drowning in his arms but still clinging to him like sacred land.  

This wasn’t the first time Gen had been kissed.  She’d had her share of boyfriends back home, but they’d always left an emptiness, a dissatisfaction inside her stomach.  This was different.  Kissing James was like being satiated and voracious all at once, in a dizzying and confusing mixture that she wouldn’t trade for the world.  Hands framing her face, he slid his tongue against her bottom lip before pulling away.  

“We should stop,” he mumbled against her lips.  Gen recognized something in his tone.  An implicit warning.   _We should stop._

She knew that he was right.  But still-- “I don’t want to stop.”  

“Believe me,” he assured her, “neither do I.”  He cleared his throat and smoothed down the sides of her dress.  “But this feeling isn’t going away anytime soon.  There’s no reason to rush things, and when the war is over, I’m planning on buying you dinner.  And taking you dancing,” he noted, jutting his chin out to gesture to where Steve was sitting with the rest of his team.  

The disappointment must’ve been evident on her face, because James dipped down to deliver one more kiss, though this one was more chaste than anything.  Even so, it sent an electric shock down her spine and straight to her core.  

“I’m holding you to that, Sergeant,” she informed him, grabbing his tie and pulling him down closer to her for a final kiss.  This one was lazy and slow, but was still over too soon.  “I should head back.  I’ll see you in the morning.”  

* * *

Gen didn’t get a chance to see James the next morning, because he accompanied Rogers on a trip to an MI6 base to work on strategy.  There was a grand plan taking place to assassinate one of HYDRA’s scientists, and every detail needed to be planned out.  

She didn’t see him the next day, either, because he was busy carrying out said plan somewhere in the tundra.  

In fact, the next time Gen heard any mention of James was when she had to write the telegram indicating that he’d been killed in action.  

The order was delivered to her desk on a beautiful morning, and she stared at it for a full three minutes before she began crying.  

He couldn’t be _dead,_ he’d been alive just a few days ago.  

 _That’s how it works_ , she reminded herself, quite unhelpfully.  James Barnes was dead.  He had fallen off a train, but--

But _he wasn’t supposed to._ He promised her dinner.  He promised to introduce her to his sister, and take her dancing for real, and she’d gotten too comfortable with the ideas to let them go now.  He was always talking about _when_ they were done with this war, not _if._ Their future had seemed so inevitable and she’d relaxed until fate had ripped the rug out from under her.  

Gen clapped a hand over her mouth until she could speak without breaking down into hysterics.  

This wasn’t fair.  

She remembered her own words.  

_It doesn’t matter what’s fair.  The war waits for nobody._

But there was no way she could simply move on from this.  She’d been damned to hell.  She’d be stuck here forever.  

* * *

**P R E S E N T**

**_sunday_ **

“We’ve made accommodations in one of our finest rooms for your week here,” Pepper Potts informs Gen as the pair make their way through the lobby of the new Avengers base.  “All shared, domestic areas are open to interviewing and recording--the kitchen, the lounge, places like that.  However, I’m afraid you won’t be able to record in any of the private quarters unless you’re given permission, and you won’t be allowed into any of the work areas.  The information in those rooms is…” she smiles teasingly, “ _classified.”_

The New Avengers facility is a massive complex in upstate New York.  In simplest terms, Gen would describe it as a gigantic summer camp designed for superpowered adults.  Out the window, she can see elaborate training obstacle courses and absurdly preparative target ranges.  Inside, dozens of blazer-wearing men and women bustle around, making sure that the Avengers brand remains running smoothly.  

Gen takes a look through a set of glass doors to where seven people sit around a marble conference table, observing a chart projected on the wall.  She points to it.  “Is that classified?” she quips.  

“In a way,” Pepper replies with a shrug.  “Those are the Avengers merchandise sale rates.  Natasha’s making the most, again.”  She sighs.  “Tony’s going to be annoyed when he finds that out.”  

Uncapping her pen, Gen scribbles a note about that in her notepad.  The prized Moleskine is almost out of pages at this point, and she’s grateful she brought a second.  And a third.  

This is the biggest story of her journalism career.   _The biggest._ The Avengers were finally agreeing to sit-down interviews, and she’s the one _Time_ assigned to the story.  In a month, each of the Avengers will be flown out to Manhattan for a big-budget photoshoot, and the anticipatory sales numbers are enormous.  

There’s a lot of pressure.  Gen’s just trying not to crack.  

But she’s dealt with pressure before.  She’ll make it through.  

* * *

The first person Gen interviews is Steve Rogers.  She’s careful with her makeup, putting all her effort into making sure he won’t recognize her.  Instead of the red lip she adored during the war, she sticks with a more natural look, straightens her hair, and puts on a suit.  

When she looks in the mirror, she thinks, _If I hardly recognize myself, there’s no way he’ll be able to._

And then she crosses her fingers and prays that she’s right.  

* * *

“It’s great to meet you,” Steve says, extending a hand for Genevieve to shake.  

He’s led her out to a spot on one of the many running paths in the facility.  Thankfully, getting here didn’t actually involve any running.  Gen loathes exercise for a lot of reasons--it hurts and she doesn’t like the discomfort, it reminds her of the conditioning she was forced to do back when--

No.   _Leave it behind_ , she reminds herself.  If she thinks about the abyss too much, she’ll fall back in, and there’s no way in hell she’s going back.  Not when she spent so many years trying to claw her way out of it.    

A cold breeze shakes her from her thoughts and brings her back to where she is: the interview.  It’s a white-skied day, her red hair is being blown over her shoulders by the October wind.  

Gen breathes a sigh of relief that Steve hasn’t recognized her and replies, “You too, Cap.”  She opens her phone and starts a recording before flipping to a new page in her notebook, where she’s got a list of questions written down.  “It’s a real honor to be assigned this piece.  You’ve been kind of a big deal since...well, since 1943.”  She shrugs and laughs, and pretends that she wasn’t _there_ back when he was a big deal.   

“It’s been a while,” Steve confides, “but I’m still not used to it.”  He chuckles under his breath and looks out at the path.  Gen remembers that.  He was shy during the War, ducking out of the spotlight whenever possible, and she can only imagine that being thrown headfirst into a new world made it worse.  

“Really?” she prompts.  The request for elaboration is implicit, but it’s there, and Steve catches on.  

“Oh, definitely.  I had stage fright before every show on the tour.  I knew I looked ridiculous.  Even now, even after everything that’s happened, I worry that the world doesn’t need me anymore.  That they’re done with me.”  

“That’s not the most ridiculous fear I’ve ever heard,” she tells him.  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but you’ve been tossed around time a lot.  It’s hard to settle after something as jarring as that.”  She looks down at her notes and asks finally, “Do you think you’ve changed a lot between now and the before?  Did becoming Captain America turn Steve Rogers into someone else?”  

Steve frowns for a minute, deep in thought.  “I think that Captain America is just an idealized version of myself.  It’s a concept, it’s stronger and smarter, and people always say that Captain America’s fearless, that he’s saved so many lives.”  He pauses, then adds, “Steve Rogers has gone through everything the Captain has.  Only he’s the one that comes out with the scars.”  

Gen is scribbling notes down as he continues.  

“You might want to ask Bucky about that, though.  He’s known me through almost everything.  He’s here somewhere, though we’ve been trying to keep things about him quiet to prevent from a major PR mess.”  

Her pen stills over the paper.  “Bucky?  Bucky Barnes?”  She’s fighting a losing battle to keep the surprise off her face.  “Last I heard, he’d left you in the Potomac river.”  

“No, we tracked him down and brought him back.  You’ll definitely run into him sometime this week.”  

Gen’s pen falls to the ground.    

* * *

**_STARS, STRIPES, & THE AMERICAN WAY_ **

STEVE ROGERS was born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1918.  He tried to enlist in the army six times before he was able to find his place in World War II, and yes, he does look incredible for his age.  

When prompted to explain his determination to fight, Rogers answers simply, “Because it was the right thing to do.  I knew it was.”  Then, he continues, “And also because my Ma was a nurse in the first World War.  I wanted to be like her.  I wanted to save lives like her.”  

Rogers was close to his mother, more so than most boys his age.  As a child, he was exposed to the abuse his father inflicted on his mom, and it led him to become fiercely protective over her.  Everything about Sarah Rogers was sacred, and Steve’s 90-pound self fought anything that tried to threaten her.  Unfortunately, he couldn’t fight the tuberculosis, and she passed away when he was nineteen.  

His scrappiness didn’t just apply to defending his mother.  Rogers’ longtime best friend, James Barnes, puts it endearingly like this: “That moron would fight anyone that stepped on anyone else.  He didn’t care that he was the tiniest guy in Brooklyn.  He didn’t care if anyone was going to step on him.”  Fondly, he recalls a time when a girl was getting hassled on the street at night.  “Steve went up to the guy and punched him in the teeth without hesitating for a second.  He broke three of his fingers, and then the guy gave him a shiner, but he left the girl alone and we walked her home to make sure she was safe.”  Barnes shakes his head, chiding Steve half-heartedly.  “That kid picked too many battles, but he’s always been good.  He’s always tried to do the right thing.”

x

CAPTAIN AMERICA was supposed to be one of the already-muscular soldiers at Camp Leheigh during 1943.  Instead, it was Steve Rogers.  

The moment he proved himself to Doctor Erskine was during a pushup drill.  Peggy Carter told the story fondly, and so often that her niece, Sharon Carter, has it memorized.  “Colonel Phillips was having an argument with Dr. Erskine about whether Steve was the right man for the job or not.  Erskine was convinced, but Phillips still needed more persuasion.  So he threw a dummy grenade onto the ground and shouted ‘ _Grenade!’_ at the top of his lungs, and every single soldier in that area made the selfish choice to back away.  

“Steve, on the other hand, dove on-top of it and shouted for his fellow soldiers to move out of the way and protect themselves.  He was always a hero.”  Erskine knew then that Rogers was going to be his first super-soldier.  He didn’t need to enhance someone with rotten morals and defined biceps.  He needed to magnify someone with a good heart, to match those good intentions with a physical ability to act on them.  

Soon after Rogers was injected with the serum, Erskine was killed, leaving him as the only super-soldier.  Hundreds have tried to recreate the serum _,_ but no organization has succeeded to the degree that Erskine did.  For a while, Rogers was nothing but living, breathing, propaganda, touring the USA and advertising war bonds.  “From Hoboken to Spokane,” he recalls, lowering his voice comically to imitate that of the announcer before his shows.  

Rogers was only able to earn his place in the front-lines after a completely unauthorized rescue mission to save Barnes, who had been captured by HYDRA forces.  “I didn’t think it through,” he admits.  There’s a confidence in his voice that leads me to believe he would do the same thing if put in the same situation today.  When I voice this, he agrees.  “It was the right thing to do.  And today, I still do my best to save as many people as I can.”  

Juggling an alter-ego is difficult for anyone, and Rogers explains how he draws the line between himself and the Captain like this: “I think that Captain America is just an idealized version of myself...Steve Rogers has gone through everything the Captain has.  Only he’s the one that comes out with the scars.”

x

THE PRESENT IS STILL THE FUTURE for Captain America.  “I still can’t bring myself to think of this as _now._ I still feel like I’m living in the future.”  

He describes the experience of being rocketed seventy years into the future as “terrifying,” and as having such effects as “putting me on the verge of an existential crisis every damn day.”  

Who has been the most help in adjusting to this future?  “Sam [Wilson],” he says definitively.  “Sharon [Carter] has become one of my closest friends, too, and she’s always introducing me to stuff.  So is my girlfriend, Darcy Lewis.  She talks so quickly, like she’s always got one foot in the future, so I’ve gotta do my best and keep up with her.”

Sam, he explains, has always eased him into things.  He introduces technology like a teacher, explaining its function and how it works.  As a result, the two are clearly some of the closest out of the group living in the tower.  

“I wish things didn’t have to be like this,” he confides quietly.  Whether he means the discomfort in the present or his living in it at all, I’m not sure.  Before I can ask, he continues, “But the fact is that they are.  I’m here, now.  And the best I can do is make the most of it.” *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a review if you're so inclined! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. next up is an interview with Natasha, and flashbacks as Gen's past gets a lot more...interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> writing blog: suethor.tumblr.com


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